LiGa Page 6

  Why was he chosen? How was he chosen?

  He considered the pastors at the churches he had known. The pastor at his family’s church was a kindly man with a dull-homily habit, and a charming wife. A gentle man. Would Rev. Ken Brighton play LiGa? No! He thought emphatically. Really? Why not? Faced with possible immortality, would a kind and gentle man of God, like Father Ken, give LiGa a try?

  Father Griffith’s biography had revealed nothing of the interviews in Rome. What was it about this calm, graceful man that made him the best choice to try immortality? The invitation had been extended to the superior general – not to Father Griffith. Like me, the senator thought, flinching involuntarily as he remembered operation “Cherry Blossom.”

  “Father, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” the senator asked, approaching Father Griffith. The priest’s brief smile was polite and uninviting. The judge turned away, an expression of undisguised distaste spread liberally about her features.

  “How did you decide to play LiGa? As a priest, I mean. I imagine it must have been very difficult,” the senator ventured.

  The room waited patiently as Father Griffith deliberately poured a cup of coffee. Black. And took a careful sip. Then turned to face the senator.

  “We took our time,” he replied evenly, walking to a table by a glass wall.

  “Very good!” exclaimed the senator, looking around uncomfortably.

  Father Griffith pulled up a chair. As he drank coffee in silence, his thoughts drifted to a letter.

  “Dear Father Roland Griffith:” it began, addressed to him from the superior general, dated April 9.

  “You will find enclosed, an unusual invitation…” the letter continued.

  Father Griffith had removed the contents of the envelope and laid them on the desk of his small office in the church.

  A document with a matte black cover, embossed in gold lettering with a single word, “LiGa™.”

  Father Griffith opened the cover, and continued to read the letter.

  The invitation had been issued to the person of the superior general, the letter explained.

  “After careful research and deliberation, I have decided that it is important to accept the invitation on behalf of the Society of Jesus.

  “I am an old man,” the superior general continued, “and do not believe I am capable of the physical exertion necessary for such a tournament. More importantly, I cannot say that I am the best man to carry the heavy burdens and rewards that this invitation promises.

  “I extend this invitation to you because, in the seventeen years since your entrance into the Society of Jesus, you have exemplified all the qualities that we honor and cherish in a man: you are strong of character but not harsh; you are intelligent without arrogance; you are fearless and brave, but not reckless; you show compassion and mercy tempered by fairness and reason. And of course, you are a highly accomplished bridge player!”

  Curious, Father Griffith started to read the invitation.

  Welcome, it began.

  You are hereby invited to compete in a tournament of LifeGame™ Bridge (“LiGa™ Bridge”)…

  He continued to read the explanation of the game… At the end, he returned to the letter from the superior general.

  “I ask you to consider this invitation on behalf of the Society of Jesus.”

  To kill or be killed. The choices: martyrdom or temporal immortality. So: immortality either way. But to kill?

  “Since the tournament is to take place at the beginning of June, I ask that you inform me of your decision by April 20th. If you accept, you will travel to Rome on May 1st for a final round of interviews.”

  “Peter–” Bruce called out to the man standing unobtrusively near the buffet table.

  “Yes, Mr. Saber?”

  “I’m curious: what happens if there’s a tie for fourth place?”

  “That is a very good question,” Peter smiled with approval. “As you have obviously realized, it is possible for two or more players to tie for fourth place. Since only the top four players can gain Life Points, this creates a problem.

  “In the event of such an outcome, there will be a tiebreaker game. Sudden death – pardon the pun.”

  “I see … but who will play against the players who are tied?”

  “Mr. Tanner–” Peter replied, turning to look at the director currently seated at a glass table.

  “And you?” Bruce asked.

  Peter shook his head. “No,” he smiled broadly, and added gravely, “if it becomes necessary, those who are tied will have the privilege of playing with Xavier Redd.”

  “Interesting…” Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “Does Mr. Redd act as the substitute player in all LiGa Bridge tournaments?”

  Peter shook his head. “Unfortunately, that is not always possible, but whenever he can, yes, he does.”

  “I see…”

  “Xavier sometimes acts as an assistant director in LiGa Chess tournaments,” Peter offered, wearing a faraway smile.

  “Oh? I wouldn’t have thought he would… As the LiGa Bridge director, I didn’t think he would be involved in LiGa Chess.”

  “Xavier could have played– he could have played chess or bridge… He chose bridge.” Peter said with more than a touch of reverence in his voice. “And now, it’s time for the fifth round. Players, find your seats.”

  *

  Helen drew out the official statement, released from LiGa Bridge headquarters, issued less than a week after Dr. Moxley’s op-ed piece on her brother’s death.

  *

  LifeGame™ Bridge

  LifeGame™ Bridge is a tournament of individual bridge in which the players gamble with, and for, a portion of their remaining lives.

  During the tournament, eight players compete in a series of games. At the conclusion of each game, the top scoring four players gain a portion of life, measured in Life Points, from the losing four players. The tournament ends when one or more of the players attains 100 Life Points.

  A player who achieves 100 Life Points is referred to as Immortal, for, at this point, the age-related degeneration of the human physiology ceases completely and indefinitely.

  In order to enter a LifeGame Bridge tournament, a prospective player must present an official LifeGame invitation, and pay a non-refundable entrance fee of £5,000,000.00.

  It has always been our policy that a player may leave the tournament at any point, for any reason.

  This statement will confirm that Dr. Alistair Moxley was a contestant in the LifeGame Bridge tournament held during February 3 – March 3.

  *

  The official LiGa Bridge “statement” had been broadcast live from LiGa Bridge U.K. headquarters, near Farnham, Surrey. It was finally revealed that a sprawling, ivy-covered Edwardian mansion housed the LiGa Bridge tournaments in the United Kingdom. Reporters were not denied access – so long as a tournament was not in session.

  The spokesperson for LiGa Bridge was identified as Xavier Redd (Imm.) It was he who had delivered the original statement.

  I remember … Helen leaned back and took a sip of warm coffee, not tasting it.

  I remember his voice… It gave me goose bumps. It was cold… No, not cold exactly, she recalled. Just no emotion.

  A voice of absolute authority.

  That was part of the power, she thought, that lack of doubt in the man’s voice. He did not doubt the authority of LiGa Bridge. It was as though… As though this man, this Xavier Redd, dressed in a dark gray suit, a tall man in his forties – possibly – was explaining one of the fundamental laws of the world – like gravity, for instance. He was not asking for our permission to play games with peoples’ lives; he was telling us that this was so.

  She shuddered at the recollection. It was like finding yourself locked out on a snowy winter’s night without your winter coat: unprotected and cold. Vulnerable.

  As expected, the speculation had really got off the ground in earnest following the official LiGa statement. The horror of
Alistair Moxley’s death had made it easier somehow to accept the possibility of immortality. If a man could age so quickly in one month, then the converse had to be possible… Otherwise, what was the point? So people had gone looking for the immortals. That is to say: the survivors of the tournament who had killed the doctor.

  But the immortals were not always as easy to recognize as a 44 year old man dying in a 90 year-old’s body.

  *

  “This is the last board of the round,” Peter announced, placing board 24 on the table.

  I can’t believe I’m losing! Sinclair thought as anger mixed with fear. One more board and then the final round… And of all the bad luck in the world, I’m paired with the worst player in the game for the last round – Senator Heath, who just gifted me a point. No more gifts from him next round though. Sinclair flicked a glance at the man to his left. The way he picks up the cards with that superior gesture is – revolting! He can barely play and he’s going to be my partner.

  “Aren’t you joining us for this hand, partner?” Porter asked softly. All the players except Sinclair had retrieved their cards from the board.

  Sinclair lifted the cards out of the sleeve with an impatient movement.

  We are the top two players thus far, Mr. Saber, Father Griffith thought as the scoreboard updated the scores for board 23. Five more hands to go… A curious position we are in at this juncture of the game. We do not yet know what it feels like to gain or lose life and therefore, for now, this is still just a bridge tournament. It is probable, looking at the points, that I will be one of the top four players. I have sought to prepare myself for such an eventuality, as well as its converse. I have prayed and meditated, and thought about the time when the life transfer will take place. I want to face it with equanimity, without attachment.

  But am I ready? How can I know? Is it not true that we can never prepare ourselves for an event we have not yet experienced? The expected death of a loved one is as wrenching as one that comes suddenly and unannounced.

  Is it not true that however we may have tried to prepare ourselves for the life transfer, until it happens, we are not truly playing LifeGame?

  5

  Wrapped in a sensual cocoon of warm, soothing oils while strong fingers deftly kneaded just the right pressure points all over her body, Natalya Chen sought to quell the needling of her own mind.

  Why not me? She asked herself yet again through the mist of the cool scent of Ocean’s Song. I should have been the one who was invited! I can play bridge too. Why don’t I get the chance to be immortal? The muscles in her neck stiffened in response.

  “Is it ok?” the masseur asked. “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” Natalya murmured petulantly. The massage was supposed to relax her, and it wasn’t working!

  “What time is it?” she asked, her voice muffled by the towel on which her head lay.

  “Time? You have another ten minutes,” he replied.

  “But what time is it?” She demanded, whipping her head around.

  “It’s five o’clock,” he replied, startled by her reaction.

  She turned back and nestled into the towels. She had time. The game wouldn’t be over for another half hour at least, and then he would have to drive back into the city… There was plenty of time to prepare for Sinclair’s arrival. From the first game.

  I wonder if he’s winning, she thought, serenely submitting to those strong, capable hands.

  “That’s better,” the masseur said softly. “Relax…”

  Indeed it would be difficult to feel anything but luxuriantly pampered under those wonderful hands…

  *

  “Thank you, Father,” Bruce extended his hand to his erstwhile partner.

  “The pleasure was mine, Mr. Saber,” Father Griffith replied, rising from his seat. “Your Honor–” he turned to the judge, who had likewise risen, “we are partners for the last round at table 1.”

  “I know,” the judge nodded.

  They left the room as Bruce and Danny took their places across from each other as West and East respectively.

  Only four more boards to go… Each player lifted the cards out of the sleeves of board 25 to start the last round of the game.

  *

  To be young … To be young and beautiful forever… To live forever. These were promises that were not made to her. Instead, I will grow old. I will grow ugly. The thought was a cold thing that the warmest oils and the firmest touch could not banish. I will grow ugly while Sinclair lives forever. Forever young… Forever attractive. There will be other women for him, and he will discard me…

  “Relax,” the masseur urged, noting the subtle tension in her muscles. He shifted his position to gain better traction on her lower back.

  Relax, she told herself. He hasn’t even won yet…

  “I can feel your tension…” he told her.

  Yes, I know, she thought irritably, and it’s your job to get rid of it. His palms roamed all over the honey-gold of her slim back and narrow shoulders, pushing deep into toned muscle.

  She closed her eyes, feeling every inch of her body melt further into the hard surface of the massage table, and her thoughts drifted …

  To a day two months ago, that was as vivid in her mind as this massage.

  It had all happened last spring. She knew it had been spring because she had worn the light Lanvin jacket that day. Unsuspecting, she had let herself in to his apartment, as was her habit, before he came home from work. He had called her earlier to tell her to be ready to go out for dinner. That always meant somewhere special. Somewhere very expensive. And Natalya liked expensive things.

  But he had not said anything about …

  The thing she saw on the black glass side table in the living room. It had not caught her attention immediately, partially camouflaged as it had been by the black of the table. She had gone to the kitchen and poured herself a cold glass of Chardonnay. Back to the living room. Sink into the soft, black leather of the couch; kick off the nude Louboutin heels, curl into the leather cushions, take a refreshing sip and reach out to place the glass on the side table…

  And see it.

  That word in gold on the matte black: LiGa.

  A LiGa invitation on Sinclair’s side table.

  She shivered at the recollection.

  You’re hereby invited… she read, and lost her appetite. What was an expensive dinner compared to the chance for immortality? She felt betrayed by … whom? Sinclair? Well, why hadn’t he told her?

  Why hadn’t she received such an invitation? She played bridge too…

  It’s not fair!

  His hands gave one last slow squeeze on her neck and shoulders and ceased. “How do you feel?” the masseur asked.

  Natalya stretched lithely like a cat, holding the towel about her. “Thank you,” she said sweetly, daintily stifling a yawn.

  “I’m sorry you’re so tense today,” he said apologetically, wiping the oil off his hands. “You really should come more frequently.”

  Now for my facial and manicure, she thought, moving towards the door. The tension that should have peeled away still nagged at her.

  Natalya had nothing to do but think under the mask that covered her face. Her eyes closed, she extended her hands for her manicure and allowed her mind to wander.

  And it was to that day that she returned…

  Waiting for him…

  Was it anger she felt?

  Hurt?

  Betrayal?

  But he has the chance to live forever! To live forever as a young, powerful man! And me? What about me? Did he think of me?

  She waited for him to come home…

  “Hey babe!” he called out. She heard his familiar step: rapid, confident. He would expect her to greet him as she normally did. With affection and enthusiasm.

  Natalya was silent. She waited for him to find her sitting on the couch with the black brochure cradled on her lap, the empty wine glass on the table.

  “Hey…” his
voice trailed off as he took note of her, and the invitation. “Oh you found the LiGa invitation–” he gave a short, easy laugh. “I forgot to tell you. It arrived a few days ago. Want anything to drink?” He turned towards the kitchen.

  You don’t fool me, Sinclair, she thought. No one just forgets they received a LiGa invitation a few days ago!

  “When were you planning on telling me?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

  “Sorry babe? Can’t hear you,” he called out from the kitchen over the clinks and chinks of ice dropped in glass.

  Sure you can’t, Natalya thought, you’re stalling. She waited for him to return.

  “So? Where do you wanna go tonight?” he asked as though unaware of her mood.

  Natalya sighed. “Sinclair, are you going to play LiGa?”

  He walked to the window and looked out into the city streets twenty-four stories below. “Yes.”

  It felt like someone had forced burning ice into her stomach.

  *

  Three more boards to go, Storm thought. I could win three more points if I play well – and am sufficiently lucky. That could be enough to put me in the top four. There’s no way I can catch up with Saber because he’s playing West at the other table, so if I win, he wins, and vice versa, but I could potentially overtake the judge and level with the priest. We are playing at the same table, and therefore, when I win a point, they will automatically score zero.

  It’s over, the senator thought. I’ve lost. I don’t think there’s any chance I can catch up to make it to the top four. Be positive! He told himself, squaring his shoulders. What are you doing? Don’t be so defeatist. Is it so inconceivable that my partner and I can score higher than Mr. Porter and Mr. Drake at table 1 for the next three boards?